


Nice Shot

by spinner33



Series: CM - Close to Canon [54]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinner33/pseuds/spinner33
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reid fails his firearms recertification test in spectacular fashion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice Shot

**Author's Note:**

> This would never happen in a million years!!! =)

Hotch didn’t say anything as Reid shuffled into his office and slumped down in one of the chairs before the desk. The look on Reid’s face said it all – he had failed his firearms recertification. After a couple of weeks of good news, all it took was this one setback to burst Reid's happy mood. Aaron continued to scratch on the paperwork he was finishing. Spencer took a deep breath and exhaled it very dramatically. Aaron looked up, and struggled to keep a straight face. 

“How bad was it?” Hotch asked. Reid stuck out his bottom lip in reply. “Reid, you’re a profiler. You are not required to carry a gun. How many times do I have to remind you of this?” 

The younger man pined in despair. Hotch couldn't decide if this was his automatic reaction to bitter defeat, or if Reid was laying it on thick in an effort to elicit sympathy and reassurance. 

“Don’t pout. You can test again in two weeks,” the unit chief soothed. 

Reid shook his head no, sitting back in his chair. 

“Agent Stewart has forbidden me from retesting for six months," he confided. 

“Six months?” Hotch exclaimed, appalled. 

Morgan was going past the door to Hotch’s office. He glanced in, and paused, but quickly continued walking when Hotch sent a hairy eyeball his direction. 

“Six months,” Reid repeated. 

“That’s absurd. Why so long?”

“I mishandled the weapon he gave me, and it discharged in the instruction area instead of in the firing range.” 

“What?” Hotch breathed in horror. 

“Oh, that’s not the worst of it.” Reid gave a short, dark laugh that was void of all humor. 

“What happened?” Hotch worried, steeling himself. 

Reid frowned at him, and relayed the tragic tale.

* * *

“Reid?!” Agent Stewart barked. Spencer jolted upright and dropped his cane to the floor. He had fallen asleep, but that wasn't his fault. The new firearms examinations instructor had kept him waiting for more than thirty minutes. His sudden appearance had taken Reid quite by surprise.

“Yes, sir?” Reid responded. 

“Nice job on the case in Maine.”

“Thanks,” Reid murmured, bowing his head. “It was a team effort.”

“According to the news, it was all you. Dr. Spencer Reid, one-man kick-ass squad,” Stewart chuckled. 

"I'm sure you exaggerate," Reid frowned. 

"Aren't you officially back on March 1?" 

"Yes, officially." 

"Why not wait to test until then?" 

"It's only a week away," Reid countered. 

“Did they catch him yet? Your perp? The one who attacked you?” 

“Who, sir?” 

“Trovinger,” Stewart said more slowly. 

“No, sir. He remains at large. The case remains open.” 

“Hmm,” Stewart frowned. 

“What?” Reid asked nervously. 

“Is all your paperwork in order?” 

“Yes, sir. SSA Hotchner signed off, as did AD Dr. Lind."

“The new unit chief wants you back in the saddle as soon as possible,” Stewart nodded, glancing through the folder he had walked over carrying. Either he hadn't bothered to read the material beforehand, or he wished to give Reid that impression. Reid wasn't sure which of those alternatives disturbed him more. “You included your therapist’s recommendations too, I see,” Stewart murmured grimly. 

“I thought it would put your mind at ease to know that I don’t have any burning desire to run out and hunt down the unsub who injured me. Revenge is not my purpose for regaining permission to carry.”

"What is your purpose?" 

"I don't understand," Reid puzzled.

“What’s the big hurry?” 

“There is no big hurry.” 

“Why do you need your gun so soon?”

“Is this part of the exam, sir?” 

“I beg your pardon?” Stewart balked. 

“I know the routine, sir. Although you have never tested me personally, I have been subjected to this process often enough to have learned your methods. Agents are tested on their proficiency, to be sure, but they are also given covert psychological tests to determine if they will be a danger to themselves or to others when in possession of a handgun. Do you mean to test my patience with adversity and confrontation? Do you wish to determine if I have any underlying motives? Plans for world domination? Evil machinations stored away for a rainy day? Do you wish to anger me, and see if that anger will throw off my emotional equilibrium, making me fail the exam?” 

Stewart gave a wry, twitchy smile.

“Shit. You profilers. You’re always a tough group,” he chuckled. “Look, Dr. Reid. Don’t take it personally. It's my job. I have to ask the tough questions. I need to feel you out. This is me, covering my professional ass. If you go postal, the first question they're going to ask is, 'What stupid son of a bitch gave him permission to carry a weapon?' I don't want to be seen as that stupid son of a bitch.” 

“I understand, but there is no need to resort to covert attempts to delve into my inner psyche. Please feel free to openly ask whatever questions you need answered.”

“All right. You prefer frankness. I can appreciate that. I'll be blunt. Whether or not you can hit the target, the question remains if it’s a good idea to have you running around with a weapon at your disposal when the man who injured you is out there on the run. I don’t like loose cannons.”

"There has been no report of Edward Trovinger since November 27th. It is highly unlikely that I will encounter him by chance." 

"It's a million to one, but it could happen." 

“Would it not be more prudent for me to be armed, should I happen to encounter my attacker on the street?” 

“See? It bothers me that this guy is out there. I'm concerned this is going to turn into a bloody vendetta, you and your team hunting this Trovinger down, making it your mission to make him pay for what he did to you and the rest of the Cryptology Department. I don't want to be the one responsible for putting a gun back in your hand. You've killed before, Reid. You've got a history. I'm not saying you're unstable. What I'm saying is that in my professional opinion, it's too soon to give you a gun.” 

“Trovinger's weapon of choice was a car bomb. Your concern about a vendetta would be justified if I developed a sudden, keen, and all-abiding interest in military-grade explosives and timer switches,” Reid frowned. 

“Like I said, in my professional opinion, it’s too soon for you to be allowed to carry. I'd like to give you some time to re-acclimate yourself to the job, the stress, the grind. You're bound to be jumpy, edgy. You're like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Do you know the statistics? How many despondent agents with undiagnosed, post-traumatic stress disorder have returned to the job too soon, failed to cope, and used their service revolver on their fellow agents, or their families, or on themselves?” 

“Yes. I do know the statistics. Very well, in fact. I don’t know how I can assuage your concerns, except by showing you that my unit chief, my section chief, and my therapist all believe that I am ready to return to work, and ready to regain my recertification,” Reid protested.

“I politely disagree with their assessments. I’m only being honest with you,” Stewart said, scrawling red ink across the form on his clipboard. 

“Does that mean you’re failing me before we even step into the firing range?” Reid wondered, taken aback. 

“No, Reid. I’ll test you. But I reserve the right to object.”

“Objection duly noted,” Reid remarked sourly. "Can we get on with this?" 

"Here," Stewart said as he took off one of his two guns, and handed it to Reid. The doctor accepted the weapon unsurely, almost dropped it to the floor.

“You do not wish for me to use my own weapon?” Reid questioned. 

“You're holding a fully-loaded, standard-issue Glock 17. It is the sidearm that most field agents carry. Do you have a problem testing with this weapon, Dr. Reid?"

"Agent Stewart, you'll find I'm knowledgeable, if not technically proficient, with a wide variety of firearms, both civilian and military grade,” Reid ground out the words, his annoyance showing through. Stewart’s weapon felt cumbersome and unfamiliar. The firearms examination instructor was attempting to unbalance Reid's calm, and unfortunately he was succeeding. Max Volchenkov’s words about the dangers of a heavy gun for a light grip were singing in the back of Spencer’s mind, but he followed Agent Stewart over to the individual stall where he would be tested. 

And that’s when things went awry, as they say.

Reid was gingerly testing his grip on the unfamiliar firearm, rotating his arm slightly while leaning his cane against the wall of the stall. The only thing Reid could compare this to was driving a new rental car for the first time. The basics remained the same, but the feel of it was all wrong. Where were the headlights? The defroster? The seat lift? Reid needed time to adjust, and he wasn't going to get that time. That lack of time was going to mean failure. Spencer could taste defeat already, and he didn't like it one bit. Stewart was turning around, his cagey brown eyes taking in Reid's discomfort. Reid tried not to show he was rattled, but it was too late. He squeezed to test his grip on the handle, and he fingered the unfamiliar trigger. 

A sudden discharge of light and sound and smell filled the room. Reid yelped in surprise when he heard the bullet fly around, pinging off metal surfaces. SSA Stewart’s face went black with rage before blanching to an ashen color. Reid recoiled in the other direction, almost falling over backwards. He had never seen a Glock with such a hair trigger. The amount of force usually necessary to discharge a weapon like this was on average between four and six pounds. This weapon was far, far below the recommended pressure threshold. Stewart dropped the folder. Pages fluttered around. He reached over and snatched his Glock 17 out of Reid's grasp. 

Thankfully there was no one else on the range at the time. The echo bounced around the vast room. Reid feared the errant shot had been heard around the campus, even though logically he knew that wasn’t possible. When the noise died down, and the smoke cleared, Stewart brushed off his dusty sweater, and glared at Reid. 

“Get out,” Stewart growled. 

“But….” 

“If you don’t know enough to check that the safety is engaged before you test-squeeze the trigger of a unfamiliar firearm, then you are clearly not ready to be recertified. I said get out. Now,” Stewart menaced, nose to nose, backing Reid against the protective barrier. 

Reid took a deep breath, let his shoulders slump, and quietly headed towards the door. He was upset with himself and angry at the universe. Not for the first time. 

“Um, Dr. Reid?” Stewart called out, his voice trembling. 

“Sir?” Spencer asked, turning around again. It was then that Reid took in Stewart's ashen color. The instructor was staring down at the splattered ground. It occurred to Reid that the floor had not been a mess before the shot had gone off. 

“Infirmary?” Stewart whispered. He stared dumbly at the hole in his wingtip shoe, at the blood pooling on the floor. Reid flew for the nearest desk phone even as Stewart continued to stare in shock at his injured foot.

* * *

Hotch's tightly-clenched mouth was quivering. When he lost his composure, his laughter could be heard on the far side of the bullpen.

“You shot Stewart in the foot?” Hotch howled, rocking and squealing. He knew humor was not the most appropriate response, but he couldn't help it. The horrified look on Reid’s face only made Aaron laugh harder. 

“It was an accident. I wouldn't have dreamed he would have handed me a weapon without engaging the safety!” Reid snapped. 

“It was part of the test,” Hotch whispered, drying his eyes. “You were supposed to check the safety when he handed you the weapon in the first place.” 

“I realize that now,” Reid whined miserably, crossing his arms angrily over his chest.

“Is Stewart all right?” 

“He'll live. He lost the tip of his big toe,” Reid pouted as he slumped down further in his seat. 

"Left or right?" Hotch inquired ghoulishly. 

"Does that matter?!" Reid exclaimed. 

"Reid, it's not the end of the world," Hotch soothed, pulling his laughter in check, drying his eyes. "Was he serious about the six months?” 

“Yes!” Reid whined again. 

“Well, maybe Stewart is right. Maybe you do need more time before you go back out there, guns ablazing.”

“I can’t believe you’re taking his side!” Reid gasped. 

“You shot him in the foot, Reid! He's bound to be a bit testy with you. At the very least, he is well within his rights to fail you, and to put a hold on your recertification. Don’t let it get to you. I'm sure it's not personal. I'll work with you. We'll schedule some sessions on the range. I'll get you primed and readied. In six months, you'll pass that test on the first try.” 

“What the hell am I supposed to do for six months?” Reid wailed. 

“Stand behind me,” Hotch offered with a devilish grin as he signed another report. 

Reid balled up a piece of paper and threw it at Hotch's face. It bounced off his nose and landed in his lap. Aaron lifted his gaze, and struggled with another grin. 

“I’m done for the day. How about we grab some take-out on the way home?” Hotch asked. 

Reid continued to glare at him. Hotch’s smile widened.

“Mnn. Mnn. Mnn. Someone's sleeping on the couch tonight,” Morgan chuckled from Hotch’s office doorway. Hotch and Reid both looked Derek's direction, but he had already vanished.


End file.
